Come Back to Me
by blacksugarbomb
Summary: During the hot summer of 1935, ambitious young writer Peter brings to light one of his brother and best friend's darkest secrets. And someone has to pay the price. "Joined by love. Separated by fear. Redeemed by hope." AU. Atonement film appropriation.
1. The Show Begins

**Author Notes:** Has anyone seen _Atonement_? I didn't really know or see the film until recently when we studied it in class. As the film progressed, I loved how I was completely manipulated without me knowing. That's the sort of feel I'd like to recreate in this fic, except with a few tweaks here and there. I've also tried to keep details about traditional English lifestyle as accurate as possible, like having breakfast, dinner then tea instead of breakfast, lunch and dinner. This fic was partly inspired by **Master KaiKen**'s adaption of Titanic _– UNSINKABLE_; go check it out, it's epic! (Although as a USUK shipper I'd think you already have.)

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**Just a foreword about some characters here; this fic does not contain OCs. In short: Alba is Scotland, Cymru is Wales and Ulster is Northern Ireland. And though he hasn't been introduced yet, Eric is Ireland. You'll meet him next chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia and Atonement or anything related to them.

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><p>It was still early in the afternoon, just briefly after dinner had taken place. The weather was splendid and the temperature was just right, even for a sunny summer's day. The sunlight poured into a fairly large bedroom with white wallpaper lined with lilies through two large windows, warming up the areas where the light fell upon. The bedroom contained a substantial amount of toys lying about the floor, as the master of the bedroom was but a boy of thirteen – not yet an adolescent but no longer a child. Having grown bored with his toys hours ago, the blond boy opted to sit at his unusually large wooden desk that fully occupied one side of his room. He was still of small stature and had to elevate himself on the chair with a thick hard covered book, but his frantic tapping at the typewriter betrayed his hidden expertise. His oddly thick eyebrows twisted this way and that as he spun his epic adventure onto paper, fingers dancing across the typewriter keys with the familiarity of an experienced author who spent days writing away his dreams. Not a single error made its way onto the paper, each phrase spelt and punctuated correctly with precision. His ocean blue eyes twinkled with a spark of joy as he finally concluded his majestic project with the strike of the key for a full stop.<p>

"The end." He read the words out to himself triumphantly as he slipped the paper out of the typewriter and collected it neatly together with numerous other sheets into a folder. He jumped off his seat in excitement. He had been working on this for a long time now and just couldn't wait to show his family.

As he slid down the house's polished banisters from the upper floor where all the bedrooms were, he couldn't help but feel anxious about showing his work to his fourth brother, Arthur. Arthur was his only full brother, his three other siblings being half-brothers and thus, he cared deeply for his opinions; but it was also because Arthur was the Shakespeare of the family and the elite of literature in his education. Despite constantly deliberately annoying Arthur for not playing with him even in his free time, he holds this specific brother in the highest regard – not that he would tell him of course.

He rushed past the front door of his house then stopped in his tracks and retraced his footsteps. He leant backwards until he could peek from behind the wall without being discovered. A cheeky smile stretched across his lips as he recognised two blond young men outside on the grand stone steps that always welcomed the family's guests. One had wavy light blond hair that nearly reached his shoulders and was dressed in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves that was slightly tinted yellow from age and dark blue trousers dirtied with stains. The other had short unkempt dirty blond hair with a peculiar strand that defied gravity; his eyes were a dazzling blue that seemed to always hold a glitter of mischievousness and his overall physical appearance was far more masculine than the other blond man.

He crept up behind the paler man who had his back facing him and suddenly brought his hands down onto the young man's shoulders with a loud exclamation. The blond jumped and gave a small shout of surprise. He turned and sighed when he realised who it was that had given him a fright. "Peter, please stop scaring me like that!" The other young man with dirty blond hair looked up from tying his boot's laces and chuckled.

"I don't want to," Peter whined with a grin, "It's too much fun, Matthew!"

Matthew sighed and flinched a little when the other man came over and swung his arms around his shoulders. The new participant in their conversation ruffled Peter's hair playfully, an American accent obvious in his voice, "You're such a little rascal! Anyway, how's your play coming along?"

Peter hurriedly fixed his hair and blinked. "How did you know I was writing one, Alfred? I didn't tell anyone about it!"

"You sure 'bout that?" Alfred winked at him, "Because I heard from someone! And to top it off, we're best buds right? I know everything about you!"

"I suppose so," The thirteen year old smiled, "I wrote it for tonight's dinner party when Cymru and Alba come home!"

"What is it about?" Matthew asked, his voice containing a twang of French.

The boy hugged the folder to his chest protectively, "Well if you come tonight you'll find out! I really do want you two to come see the play."

"Now buddy, you know we'd love to but…" Alfred smiled apologetically.

"…But you know we're still technically servants. It'll be improper for us to attend. Sorry, Peter." Matthew politely finished the sentence.

Peter frowned in disappointment. He was awfully fond of Matthew and Alfred. Although they live down at a lodge a small distance away, Peter had never once saw them as anything less than family. Matthew and Alfred were fraternal twins and looked nothing like each other, but many still made the common mistake of calling Matthew his brother's name except for a rare few, such as Peter himself. The brothers were quite a curious pair as well and they never ceased to interest Peter with their stories of travelling. As children, they spent early years of childhood going back and forth between America and Canada as their parents had split up and took custody of them separately. Their parents had agreed to let the brothers meet occasionally, and it was during these times when they would have mind blowing adventures. It was also the reason why Alfred had a heavy American accent while Matthew possessed a Canadian accent. In many instances, Peter's stories had been inspired by their various tales about the coldest winter they had ever experienced in Canada and the amazing aero manoeuvres of American pilots.

"How about you give us a copy of the script instead?" Matthew blinked his violet eyes, "You used to give us a copy of those nicely bound stories you wrote. We've kept them all."

"No! I want you to see it, not read it!" The boy objected firmly. The twins looked at each other with troubled expressions. "It doesn't matter; I'll talk to you two later about it. I'll see you around!"

With that, Peter left the twins and continued on his way through the house in search for Arthur and his mother. On his way, he glanced at the grandfather clock that stood in the foyer. It read half past two. He huffed in approval. They would both be easily located in the parlour having tea. Peter continued on his way, strolling confidently through the house until he reached the double doors of the parlour and swung them open without a second thought, calling out for his mother's attention as he closed the door behind him. The parlour was fancily decorated with glass cupboards to show off all the beautiful tea sets that they owned, a miniature crystal chandelier dangling low from the ceiling and the couches and armchairs a soothing shade of beige to match the soft wallpaper. In the centre of the room was a well-made black cherry wood coffee table, surrounded by the other furniture. It was almost as if the room revolved around the table itself.

Peter's mother was a refined looking woman with rich golden locks despite her old age and various wrinkles, a picturesque lady seated on one of the couches with strands of her hair pulled back with a barrette and the rest left out to rest on her shoulders as if to pose for a painter. She held a cup of tea in her delicate hands, her grip porcelain-like as she lifted the china to her lips. Seated opposite from her across the coffee table was Arthur. Much like his mother, he too emitted a sense of sophisticated ambiance as befitting of a high classed gentleman of contemporary society. Like Peter, Arthur had the same sunshine blond hair but instead had green eyes attributed to their father. Unlike any of his other brothers, Arthur was lanky, thin and everything far from rough and muscular. However, it seemed that girls still chased after him, preferring a gentleman over obliviously eager men. Peter had often read sections of those silly love letters that girls sent to Arthur when he wasn't looking and wondered why people would try to become more than friends with his older brother when he was well known for his snappy attitude and sarcastic cynical comments.

"Mother, mother! I've just finished my first play!" Peter bounced over to his mother and held out the folder which holds his play's script.

Arthur who had been seated in his favourite armchair looked up from his cup of tea and transported himself over to sit beside their mother, murmuring the title of the play to himself, "Beyond the Clouds… Is this another of your 'over the hills and far away' stories?" He rolled his eyes.

The boy glared at him the best he can. Stupid jerk Arthur. He had gone to work so hard for this play to be completed and now he was brushing it off as another of his average stories? How dare he! "That's not true!" Peter stuck his tongue out at his sibling, "This one's special! It's much more exciting and mysterious! I worked very hard on the mystery factor!"

"The day the world marvels at your stories and calls them something that's surpassed Sherlock Holmes, and then I'll acknowledge that it's above average." Arthur sipped at this tea.

Peter wanted to punch him in the stomach badly. Very badly.

Their mother hushed them and said she'd like to read the play without the two of them bickering in the background. The brothers shot each other a look and apologised to their mother. Minutes later, Arthur couldn't help but silently agree that this had to be Peter's best work yet. For a thirteen year old, his writing skills had developed soundly and his stories were becoming more intricate. He couldn't stop reading the script and found himself a little impatient at his mother's slow reading pace. As soon as the page turned, his eyes would dive in again and swallow up each and every word printed on the paper. Of course, the story was still underdeveloped in some areas and could still only be classified as something that a youngster like Peter would read. But he'll admit it in his head, Peter was good.

Their mother shuffled the papers back neatly and closed the folder with a smile, "Peter, that was absolutely stupendous! Your first play… Beyond the Clouds by Peter Kirkland," Her smile widened and she planted a kiss on Peter's forehead, "Oh I'm so proud of you! I'm sure everyone will be delighted tonight to see it performed. Won't they, Arthur?"

The blond man blinked at his mother's pressuring smile. For a moment Arthur considered complimenting his little brother properly but when he saw that smug face plastered to the boy's face, he scratched the thought out. He'd just spoil the kid rotten and give him an unnecessary ego boost; the rest of the family was there to do that. He nodded in agreement but made it clear that his compliment was purely sarcasm, "Why yes, of course. I'm dying to see it already."

Taking the chance, Peter planted his hands no his hips with that same arrogant expression stuck to his face and said, "Well if you liked it that much, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let you join my cast. You can be the big scary grizzly bear!"

"You're asking me to act?" Arthur raised a thick eyebrow and took another sip of his tea, "I love reading and writing but I'm no actor, Peter. I have neither talent nor passion for that area."

Their mother patted Arthur on his knee warmly as she stood. "Now, now Arthur, be nice. I'm certain that you'd make an endearing grizzly bear. I'm feeling a little faint from the heat so I'll be in my bedroom if you boys need me."

Arthur nodded and poured himself another cup of tea. Peter watched their mother as she glided out of view. He could hear her slowly walk up the stairs and close her bedroom door softly. Peter plopped himself onto the shorter couch adjacent to the one Arthur was seated in and swung his legs in the air. An amiable peacefulness spread across the room, a cloud drifting across the sun and casting the room in temporary cool shade. The thirteen year old boy blinked at his older brother who had his eyes closed as he took in the scent of Darjeeling.

"Hey Arthur," The blond boy almost whispered, afraid of disrupting the silence, "Can I ask you something?"

"Haven't you already?" The older blond sipped his tea, his composure still intact.

Peter took that as a 'yes'. "How come you don't talk much with Alfred anymore? You used to be best friends with him."

The young man brought the china cup back to its saucer, watching as a small droplet of tea rolled down the curve to settle at the bottom of the cup. It was true that he used to be best friends with Alfred. They had known each other ever since they could remember and they had grown up together, attending the same schools and eventually, university. However, as soon as university began, he had stopped associating himself with Alfred. He made friends with other people he met at university and no longer talked to the dirty blond unless necessary; and that was rare, as they had studied different subjects. It wasn't that he disliked the American although he was loud, obnoxious and overly inconsiderate in terms of reading the atmosphere. But somewhere along the way, something in his mind clicked and told him that Arthur Kirkland should not be friends with Alfred F. Jones any longer. So he stopped being friends with him.

"It's only because we move in different circles nowadays," The Brit replied nonchalantly, "Plus he's rather thick headed, naïve and ignorant. I don't like meddling with impossibly shallow people like him. Not to mention he's a servant of the house."

His little brother pouted and gave him a hard slap on the arm. Arthur nearly dropped his tea cup and saucer. He glared at the boy, demanding an explanation for the sudden violence. Peter crossed his arms angrily, "Alfred's not a servant! He's part of the family! And you went to the same university as him, so you can't say he's uneducated and dumb without admitting you are too!"

"He only got into the same university as me because father paid for his school fees and vouched for him," Arthur retorted as he replaced the saucer and cup on the coffee table, "Don't you forget that he owes our family. Now if you'll excuse me Peter, I have more important things to do than waste time arguing with you."

The older blond stood and straightened his clothes before proceeding towards the double doors that their mother had disappeared from only a short while ago. The cloud that had obstructed the sun had now shifted away and sunlight spilt into the room once again through the large windows. Peter opened his mouth to protest but was quickly cut off.

"And no, I'm still not going to be in your play no matter what you say." Arthur shut the door.

Peter sat in solemn silence for a moment, listening to Arthur's footsteps quickly disappear. Fine, he didn't want to act in his play. Fine, he wasn't too impressed with it either. The blond boy hopped off the couch and swiped his play script off the coffee table and stormed out of the parlour. But how could he say such horrible things about Alfred, his childhood friend? Obviously, Arthur needed a piece of his mind! Once again, Peter paused to look at the grandfather clock in the foyer. He couldn't believe his eyes – was it three in the afternoon already? Forget Arthur, he needed to assemble his cast!

Who else was free?

Ah. His third oldest brother, Ulster.

Tucking Arthur away into the back of his mind, Peter hurriedly scrambled back upstairs to see if his brother was in his bedroom or not. He stood outside the door and timidly pushed the door open, finding to his delight, the person he was looking for. Generally, his third brother was a very upbeat and friendly person and something about his appearances also gave that same impression; chocolate brown hair, chipper lime green eyes and the lightest sprinkle of freckles. Not at all hard to approach, but Peter still swallowed nervously when he found Ulster sitting at his desk, busy scratching away on paper with his ink pen. The brunet had long since finished university, but had decided to aim for a research doctorate degree in the art of engineering.

Though he had eased the door open as quietly as he could, somehow Ulster still managed to detect his lurking presence. Before Peter could do anything else, he said, "Sorry Peter, maybe some other time. I need to get this done."

The blond boy shut the door softly behind him with a whispered apology. Well, that went well.

Peter dragged himself back into his bedroom and shut the door dejectedly. He had written this masterpiece and no one wanted to perform it! He picked up a wooden building block he had used previously in the construction of his castle and threw it onto the ground with frustration. Somewhere in the background, the constant drone of a buzzing bee could be heard and Peter couldn't feel more annoyed. He marched up to the window where the bee was flying around, the bug trying to push past the glass but obviously failing. For a second, he was intent on squishing the insect with his bare palm, whether it stung him or not.

Then he saw them – Alfred and Arthur.

Together at the fountain.

It was odd enough to see them together, but what followed was even more peculiar. Peculiar to the point of being dangerously scandalous. Lethal, even.

Arthur sat on the edge of the fountain with the family's golden vase that was solely reserved for special occasions and a bunch of flowers beside him, an expression of rage etched on his face as Alfred held onto his arm firmly, saying something to him. Peter couldn't quite catch any dialogue being exchanged from this far a distance. But whatever it was that the American said, it annoyed Arthur even more as the Brit flung the other's arm away. However, the baffling thing was, Arthur began to strip. He was obviously still vexed by Alfred, but he began to fervently cast off his clothes – first his grey waistcoat, his white shirt, his shoes and socks.

Thank the Lord he didn't decide to take off his slacks.

But that was enough to send Peter whirling around and duck for a hiding spot. He was definite that he would not be seen from the fountain, but rather, he was hiding to avoid seeing them. He felt like he had just been told someone's dirty little secret; a secret that was never meant to be known by the likes of a thirteen year old boy.

And yet, he regained his courage and returned to his window once again with trembling hands.

Something had occurred while he wasn't looking, but Peter's eyes widened in shock when Arthur re-emerged from the surface of the fountain gasping for air. He was not in danger of drowning although Peter knew very well that his fourth brother could not swim. Arthur held onto the side of the fountain and proceeded to struggle with getting out of the water. Next thing he knew, Alfred was at Arthur's side, his hands touching his brother everywhere. His hands grabbed at Arthur's arm, his waist, his stomach, his chest – anywhere you could imagine. Peter understood that it was improper for a gentleman to touch a lady anywhere apart from her hand and this was with her permission no less; but for a man to touch another man wherever he pleased? That was simply wrong. Peter wasn't sure if the American was helping his brother get out of the fountain or not, but from where he watched, it all seemed too suspicious. He wrinkled his nose in repulsion. If Alfred was helping Arthur, why was Arthur trying to loosen his grip on his arm? Why was Arthur shouting at him?

More importantly, why did Arthur just randomly strip himself and dive into the fountain for no apparent reason?

When his brother was finally out of the water and free from Alfred's roaming hands, he stood there huffing and dripping water for a second before he snatched up his clothes and redressed himself, not caring that the fabrics were eagerly soaking up the liquid and clinging to his thin body frame. The entire time, he had his grass green eyes trained on Alfred. The other blond just gawked back at him; he might as well have been eating Arthur whole with his eyes! When he was satisfied with simply buttoning up his now thoroughly wet shirt, Arthur gathered the ornate vase, the flowers and the remainder of his clothes into his arms and stormed off. On the way, he tore something out of Alfred's hand. The dirty blond man seemed to have said something again, but this time Arthur completely ignored him and marched all the way back to the house.

The show was over.

He knew their secret. No; Alfred's secret. And nothing made him more certain than Alfred bending over the side of the fountain afterwards and dipping his hand into the water, his touch seemingly disgusting and sick to his eyes. Peter's concentration diverted back to the bee and he once again, attempted to kill the insect. However, he only managed in pushing the window open and letting it fly free. Suddenly, the weather didn't seem as wonderful as before, nor the day as perfect as it seemed.


	2. Venus

**Author Notes: **Thanks for the reviews guys! :D It's nice to know that some of you haven't seen the movie yet, so that'll keep the story more interesting as things unfold. And please tell me if the changes in POV are confusing – I've tried to make them as seamless as possible! I've also incorporated the original film's quotations at certain points. A special mention for **Someya**; not only does she practically edit (as much as she denies this) my scrappy work into something that is actually worth talking about, she also wrote Alfred's little rude note. I could never come up with something as original as what she wrote… SO MUCH LOVE FOR YOU, MY DARLING!

LONG CHAPTER IS LONG. (Last chapter was 7 pages on Microsoft Word, this chapter was 14… Phew!)

**IMPORTANT NOTE: **A quick reminder that this fic does not contain OCs. As mentioned in the previous chapter's note, Alba is Scotland, Cymru is Wales, Ulster is Northern Ireland and Eric is Ireland.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia and Atonement or anything related to them.

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><p>Why should Peter care whether he and Alfred talked often or not? The boy needs to learn how to mind his own business! Call him materialistic and cold, but what he said was true. Alfred was once his closest friend but not anymore. Now he was just another servant tending to his family's property, keeping the gardens neatly trimmed and radiant with blooms of roses all year round. Yet somehow, Arthur's mind refused to calm down and drop the thought of Alfred F. Jones.<p>

The drawing room was one of the best lit rooms during the day, with enormous windows that stretched across the wall from end to end, swallowing sunlight like a hungry chasm. As the room where the family's guests are welcomed and entertained in for majority of their stay, the drawing room was fitted with the most superb items – from imported chinaware and exotic oriental souvenirs to the polished grand piano that stood beside the window and the costly paintings that hung on the walls. A set of lounge chairs were arranged to circle the fireplace that hadn't been in use since the last day of winter had melted away. Behind one of the lounge chairs stood a slim waist high wooden table where a tray of alcohol stood. In their clear glass bottles was whisky, brandy, ale – every single type of alcohol that Arthur knew in existence was there. A glass ashtray was also provided, should the guests be smokers. On the same table stood a golden vase, a bunch of flowers arranged meticulously according to their varying heights, standing lopsided in the container.

The Brit entered the empty drawing room, peering into the vase. It had yet to be filled with water. He took the vase into his arms. He had already traced his eyes over each and every detail etched and painted on the vase before, its exquisite beauty no longer as astounding as it seemed years ago when he first set eyes upon it. Unlike how he saw Alfred. He'd known him for ages and still, those cerulean eyes of his never ceased to fascinate him. Arthur stared at the vase incredulously as if it had just spoken to him. He shook his head, hoping the image of Alfred gazing intently at him would leave him alone. He tore his gaze away from the vase and instead focused on studying the suddenly immensely interesting flowers and gave them a sniff. His mother must have bought them, because he could smell a faint whiff of her perfume attached to the flowers. As he was about to leave, a lone figure seated outside by the stone stairs caught his eyes. The dirty blonde hair, the rolled up shirt sleeves, the sun kissed skin and broad shoulders.

It was Alfred.

The American sat on a step with his back facing him, twirling a lawn daisy in between his fingers. The golden blond young man turned away and looked at his own reflection on the glossy black surface of the grand piano's lid. He studied himself from different angles. Was his hair alright? Was it too messy or – Arthur shook his head again. What was he thinking? What was he fixing his appearance for? Or alternatively, whom for?

The green eyed man stepped away from the piano and exited the drawing room as he headed towards the front door, each step a measured distance in his mind. He strolled out casually out of the house and into the blinding sunshine onto the stone steps. When he approached the dirty blond man from behind, Arthur noticed that he had nearly plucked out all the white petals of the daisy, letting the petals drift down onto the steps. The Brit descended the stairs until he stood next to the American, pausing to look down at him. "What are you, some lovesick fool plucking daisies to see if their lover would return their pitiful feelings?" He sneered.

Alfred looked up at him, eyes narrowed slightly from the glare of sunlight. Sky blue met with emerald green. "No, just bored," Arthur continued on his way down the stairs as Alfred stood up and dusted himself off before following suit, "You want some help with that?"

"I'm perfectly fine thank you. If I can't even run a simple errand for my mother, what else am I good for?" Arthur didn't stop, keeping his pace at a reasonably fast speed as they crossed the neatly trimmed lawn, "That aside, I heard you want to complete a doctorate degree like Ulster is right now?"

"Yep. Do you think it's a good idea? But I don't really want to get into teaching or researching…"

"Well at least you'd be able to get a better job with a doctorate."

"Oh and if you're worried about the tuition fees, I'll make sure I pay your dad back," Arthur hadn't realised Alfred had stopped walking with him for a while now and when he turned, he finally noticed the vast distance that had grown between them. Silence settled over them uncomfortably as a soft summer breeze swept over the lawn, "We promised we would after all; both Mattie and I."

"…That wasn't what I was talking about at all." Arthur pursed his lips and continued on his way to the fountain. Couldn't that idiot tell that he was hinting at something else?

The family's fountain was a strange thing that stood out like a sore thumb. The family had a very large lawn with absolutely nothing on it but grass and suddenly there would be the fountain in the middle of nowhere, a statue of Venus rising up in the centre as if to imitate some glorified Greek sculpture, the nude woman captured in a flowing position of grace. As a result of being subject to the challenges of the natural elements, the statue had become curiously smooth on the surface, its outline sculpted by the winds and some of the shadows on her body darkened by stains of rain. The water no longer ran from the pot that Venus held in her graceful arms, but whenever it rained, the fountain would catch the rainfall and be filled to the brim with it. To say the least, the stagnant water in the fountain was far from clean for any practical use but Arthur noticed that lotuses that they had bought all the way from in India had been planted in the water to try and beautify the ancient thing. He had still yet to see them flourish.

Sitting down by the side of the fountain, Arthur set aside the flowers and was about to dip the vase into the water when he felt a force pulling it back. He glared at the American who had a firm grasp on the other ear of the vase. "I insist on helping you." He said. Arthur pursed his lips and gave a tug. The other refused to let go.

"Alfred F. Jones, if you don't let go –"

"No, honestly, I want to help you –"

"I don't need any assistance; now will you –"

"How about you let go? Is it just that hard –"

Crack. Plop. Splash.

Alfred stumbled backwards, the ear of the vase still in his hands. He blinked as he finished his sentence without interruption finally, "…To let me help you?"

The Brit couldn't care less about his companion but instantly bent over the water's surface, searching the fountain's depths for the shard that had fallen in. He cursed when he couldn't see properly with the sunlight reflecting off the water. He pulled up a sleeve and dipped his arm into the water timidly, waving it around in the cool liquid to search for the missing piece. "You idiot!" He sat back up and snarled at Alfred, "You realise that was probably the most valuable thing we own!"

The dirty blond snickered and chuckled and was obviously trying his best to contain his laughter. Blimey! That git still had the guts to laugh after breaking something so expensive? What was wrong with him? "Not anymore it isn't." Alfred replied, the laughter evident in his voice.

"Sod off, you wanker! Stop laughing!" Oh he'd have hell to pay if his mother found that he broke her favourite vase. Now if he could just find that part that fell in the water, then he might be able to piece it back together and pretend nothing happened… Arthur leaned forward to let his hand sink further into the fountain's water.

And again, there was that strong iron-like grip on his arm pulling him back. Arthur had had just about enough of this obnoxious, stupid, ignorant, inconsiderate, brainless twat of a Yankee!

He sat back up by the side of the fountain. "Now what do you want? Haven't you ruined enough of my day already, you oaf?" The Brit snapped angrily, "And you're hurting me! Now let me go and leave me alone!"

For the first time, Alfred seemed genuinely cut by his words. Usually, no matter what the insult, he soaked it up like a sponge and was never affected by anything Arthur threw at him. With a murmured apology, his childhood friend explained, "You were about to fall into the fountain so I –"

"I thought I told you that I didn't need any help!" Arthur had failed to notice the morose expression on the other's features and roughly flung his hand away. "Fine; if you're not convinced, I'll prove it to you!" He huffed indignantly.

He stood and began unbuttoning his grey waistcoat, dropping it down onto the ground without a care. Then off came his silver grey tie that shimmered slightly in the sunlight and white cotton shirt, exposing Arthur's bare chest and back, the skin perfectly smooth and possessing an almost pearl-like quality as it glowed under the sunlight. He was far too occupied with being angry at Alfred to pay attention to anything like decency. With some trouble, he kicked off his shoes and socks. He then removed his wristwatch and laid it on the side of the fountain before lowering himself down into the water, the ripples making the lotuses quiver.

"No, no, no! You know you can't swim, Arthur!" Realising his intentions, Alfred's eyes widened and he stretched out his arm in attempt to stop him before it was too late. The blond shot Alfred a look of disapproval and slipped into the fountain anyway.

Arthur felt a rush of pride as his world became a dull revolting shade of faint green; no one tells him what he can and cannot do! That was when he realised just how deep the fountain was; it would be more fitting to call the fountain a large well. His feet were stretched out beneath him but they had yet to touch the bottom. Before his body could float back up to the surface, Arthur clawed his way through the water, his legs kicking ineffectively like a doomed ant does with its legs in a puddle. A thin shaft of sunlight speared the water and a glint sparkled in the bottle green depths. He ignored the searing sensation at the back of his throat and swam towards the object. Sure enough, it was the missing piece from the broken vase. Once it was safely tucked in his palm, Arthur felt, for the first time since entering the cool depths, vulnerable and fearful. The thick stems on which the lotuses pierced the water surface appeared like bars in a prison cell and ropes that seemed to want to entangle his limbs and keep him trapped him at the bottom of the fountain for eternity, and the glazed surface that loomed overhead like frozen ice. His body suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. He was going to drown. His lungs were burning for air. He coughed involuntarily and his last breath escaped from his lips. Forest green eyes looked up hazily and spotted a familiar face hovering above the fountain. The bright light that filled the outside world seemed almost like heaven to Arthur right now, and those blue eyes searching for him were a gentle ease from all the tasteless olive shades that surrounded him. And as if the angel that watched over him had heard his thoughts, an arm immersed itself into the water, the outline of the outstretched hand clear cut against the white of the sky. Before he knew it, Arthur had subconsciously kicked his way back towards the surface and grabbed the hand, holding onto it tightly as if it was the entirety of what he possessed in his world.

The drenched Brit surfaced with a sharp intake of air, his lungs easing themselves with the circulation of oxygen. It felt odd to be breathing again. Arthur was guided to the edge of the fountain where he rested his elbows, hanging on for dear life while coughing and gasping. He blinked a few times to readjust to the strong sunlight that was gently warming his back like a mother's caress. The angel whom had saved him said something, but Arthur couldn't hear him properly until he looked up and realised that it was no angel, but merely Alfred. His hand was still clenched tightly in his. Arthur exploded into another fit of coughs and wriggled his hand out of the American's, a faint blush dusting his cheeks.

Alfred inquired worriedly, "Hey, you alright?"

"I'm fine and dandy!" The other blond spat back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He attempted to lift himself out of the water by relying purely on his arm strength but with his lack of muscle, Arthur could only pathetically claw and grab at nothing. With a sigh, his rescuer hooked his muscled arms under the soaked blond's upper arms; but Arthur put up a mighty fight, shrugging out of his grip, sinking his teeth in Alfred's arms and making huge splashes to try to make the dirty blond leave him alone. Even now, his pride still held priority over his safety. The task of pulling Arthur out of the water turned into a catastrophe, but was finally completed successfully when Alfred simply grabbed whatever part of the young man he could get his hands on until he hauled the blond onto the side of the fountain like a fisherman with his fishnet. Letting the other recover, Alfred picked up the broken handle of the vase that he had put aside earlier and was about to hand it back to its rightful owner when he found himself staring at Arthur. If looks could kill, he would perhaps have already had twenty daggers stabbed into him by the spluttering man. Despite this, Alfred could do nothing but stare. He hadn't found the Brit's thin delicate frame all that fascinating before, but with a coat of sunlight trapped in the water droplets that trickled down his back and torso, he found the other blond strangely picturesque. Flawless pale skin bathed in droplets of the summer sun accompanied golden threads of hair and gifted with a pair of enthralling emerald eyes that told so much more than a hundred paged book could. Alfred's eyes didn't stray aside even as Arthur slipped into his white shirt, letting the fabric absorb the droplets on his body. He then pocketed his wristwatch, collected his waistcoat, stuffed his socks into his shoes and picked them up with a finger hooked in each. There was something beautiful about the way the water would cascade down the blond's face and how his clothes clung to his tenuous body. The entire time Arthur was obviously channelling all his displeasure about this incident into his eyes but all Alfred could do was stare back like a hypnotised doll.

Charmed. Put under a spell.

When he snapped out of the trance, Alfred's words stumbled over one another like a newborn learning to speak, "A-Arthur, I—"

The other was obviously unimpressed as he dropped the broken pieces into the vase and replaced the flowers in the vessel. The sopping wet young man scowled at him and swiftly snatched the last remaining piece of the vase from his hand and marched away furiously. Alfred watched him go, his fist clenched tightly by his side. Smooth Jones, smooth. His eyes went back to the fountain. The water had settled down again, its surface undisturbed by ripples, reverting back to the serene appearance of a mirror. He reached forward and touched it gently with the tip of his finger, as if he was afraid of it. But after a moment, he came to like the feel of the water around his hand.

Yielding, flowing, cool to the touch and crystal clear but tinted with a faint hint of green.

Green like his eyes.

Arthur Kirkland's eyes.

The dirty blond looked up as a loud beep of a car's horn sliced through the pleasant silence. He instantly got up and ran to the front gate. It must be Alba and Cymru, back from their outing to London. Jogging up to the large iron gates that guarded the mansion from unwanted outsiders, Alfred easily swung them open one at a time, though it normally took two other servants to do so. In the gleaming white car sat the Kirkland brothers and two others that Alfred couldn't quite recognise.

The driver was of course, Alba Kirkland, the oldest brother of the siblings; his red hair made him absolutely unmistakable even from a distance. Like his brothers, he had green eyes but his green was a dark green that you would associate with a forest at dusk, a sinister shade of green. He had the worst temper amongst all his siblings, easily annoyed and he seemed to bear some form of dislike for Arthur in particular – Alba wasn't the best brother you could ask for, but there have been moments when he shows that he genuinely cares for others. On the other hand, Cymru was the complete opposite of Alba. He had caramel coloured with a strand that was constantly tucked behind his right ear, the tint that was stuck in between brown and blonde. But the feature that stood out the most on Cymru's face was his turquoise eyes that had a certain glint to them. Something Alfred could never quite place. He was the quiet, gentle, calm and kind brother, the one that you could rely on at any point in time; whether it was to stop whatever crazy things his siblings attempted or simply for comfortable companionship.

The red head drove the car through the gates and pulled to a stop by the steps of the house's entrance. Alba called out to the American just as he shut the gates, "Hey Al! You got a moment to spare?"

"What is it?" Alfred questioned when he neared the car. Alba hated being formal and uptight about everything, insisting that he be treated as an equal rather than a master. "Do you want me to go grab Danny for you?"

"Yes, but you can look for him later. Just wanted to introduce you to our guests for tonight," Alba grinned as he gestured to the two seated in the back seats of the car. Alfred blinked quizzically at why he would need this piece of information; he worked only during the day and was responsible only for the duties outside the actual house. As if he had voiced the question out loud, the red head added, "Because you, lad, are going to join us for tea tonight."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Now don't ask too many questions."

Alba proceeded to introduce each guest to him. The first that Alfred was introduced to sat on the right, named Francis Bonnefoy. He had thought the name already sounded familiar when Alba told him that he was the son of the rich Frenchman who owned a famous chocolate factory here in England, the very same one that was responsible for supplying the British army with chocolate supplies. The Frenchman had light creamy blond hair with slight curls tied up with a black ribbon, reminding Alfred of the people in the Georgian era. It was odd for a man to have long hair in England, but Alfred supposed it was stylish in France. Francis also had blue eyes, a deep shade on the verge of cobalt blue. He was dressed neatly in a suit of royal purple with a blue shirt and white tie. Although royal purple was known to have been a colour worn by the kings, Alfred still thought it was a colour far too feminine for men but it complimented Francis nicely. Apparently he had been a long-time family friend, having attended university with Alba and often come to visit before Alfred began living here. Francis held out his hand friendlily and Alfred took it somewhat awkwardly; none of the guests had ever deemed it important for them to shake hands with a servant at the Kirkland household.

At first glance, Alfred had already concluded that the other guest was most definitely related to the Kirklands. The infamous thick eyebrows and the green eyes did all the talking. He had hair that was almost similar to Alba's although it had more of an orange mix into it, but a fiery shade nonetheless. Freckles dashed his cheeks, giving him a young and almost childish appearance. Alfred could already tell from his crinkled nose that he disliked him. He wore a dull light brown suit, matched with a silk dark auburn cravat and white waistcoat. As expected no less of the Kirklands' relatives, everything they owned were a class above others. Alfred couldn't help but wonder how much exactly the vase he broke was worth. He didn't want to think about it.

"Alfred, this is our cousin from Ireland, Eric," Alba gestured to the Irishman and then to Alfred, "Eric, this is our family friend, Alfred F. Jones. Might interest you to know that he's American."

"It's a pleasure to meet both of you, Mr Bonnefoy and Mr…?"

Eric spoke up finally, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. He scoffed and threw Alfred an even snobbier look than before, "Walsh. Eric Walsh."

Alba chuckled. Alfred took it that this cousin of the Kirklands doesn't really like Americans. He faked a smile, "Well it's been a pleasure to have met both of you, Mr Bonnefoy and Mr Walsh."

"Likewise, Alfred." Francis answered in heavily accented English.

Alfred was about to go when a figure caught his eyes. He stared for a while, noticing that the other had changed into a dry set of clothes. Francis waved to the person standing inside the shade of the house, "Oh if it isn't Arthur! How have you been, _mon amis_? It has been a very long time since I last visited you!"

Not knowing how to face him yet, Alfred hurriedly excused himself and walked away in search for Danny. He wasn't running away or avoiding Arthur, no; he simply needed a little more time to think through how to apologise for the vase. He shook his head. He'll worry about that later, but right now, he needed to find Danny, the youngster who was responsible for doing all the heavy lifting, although Alfred personally thought he was better at the task than the scrawny teenager.

Cymru looked from Alfred's receding back to Arthur's frown as his little brother walked over. "Did something happen between you two?"

"No, nothing," The young man replied though his eyes spoke of a different story, "Nothing at all. It's just Alfred being nonsensical as usual." He could tell his second oldest brother wasn't buying it, but made no move to investigate into the matter any further.

Francis winked at Arthur flirtatiously. He shivered in disgust. "In any case, your dear brother here has decided to invite your _petit_ American to dine with us tonight."

Arthur gaped and stared at Alba incredulously. "You what?"

"Yes I did and I'm proud of it."

"Why? I know you love being horrid to me, but why? Of all things!"

"Calm down, lad! It's only tea. You two see each other on a daily basis anyway! No reason to fret over it all… Unless something really did happen between the two of you?"

"No! No to everything! Moreover, he's a servant! Don't you see the problem? A servant shouldn't dine at the same table as the masters of the house!"

"You and I both know he's more than that, Artie." Arthur cringed at the nickname. He hated how he could never win against his oldest brother in a fight of any sort, be it physical, mental or verbal. And that stupid victorious smirk of his!

He threw his hands up in defeat. "Argh, I don't care anymore! Just do whatever you want, Alba!"

With that he stormed off back into the house, not paying any attention to Francis' affectionate cries and Eric's sneers. As he passed the staircase, he paused momentarily as he caught a blur of blond out of the corner of his eye. Arthur turned and found his little brother staring back with a look he had never seen in the thirteen year old before. It was as if his brother had been enlightened to the knowledge of the universe, a twinkle of knowingness and suspicion showing in his eyes of marine blue. Arthur began to scold him about sliding down the stair banisters but his little brother simply pouted at him and shot him a dirty look before running off in the direction of the front doors, no doubt to pester the other siblings about acting in his play.

Peter could tell from that unsettling look on his brother's face that his day had already hit rock bottom. The blond boy ran away from listening to his long tedious lecture about the stair banisters that he had heard one too many times; he should be thankful he wasn't going to pick a fight and rub salt in his wounds and make his day any worse! Briefly blinded by the late afternoon sunshine, he dashed out of the house towards the four who stood conversing freely beside the car. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Danny extracted three large suitcases from the back of the automobile with some trouble. Peter put on the largest smile he could manage and spread his arms wide.

"Alba!" He giggled as he wrapped his arms around the older man's waist. "Welcome home!"

The red haired man laughed heartily, "That's more like it! Grumpy old Arthur wouldn't even welcome us home!" He pat the boy's head.

"And he is…?" Peter peered shyly at the Frenchman dressed in purple.

This time Cymru did the introducing. He gave the boy a reassuring pat and said softly, "This is Mr Francis Bonnefoy. He's the son of the Mr Bonnefoy, the one who owns the chocolate factory." Peter's eyes sparkled in admiration. Francis winked at the child playfully. "And I'm sure you remember our cousin, Eric? We've visited his house on many occasions…"

"Ah, the scary cousin…" Peter shrunk back behind Alba. The older men all burst out into a light-hearted chuckle except Eric, who still had a sour expression painted on his face. The blond boy held onto both of his brother's hands and swung them back and forth playfully as he announced that he had written a play for tonight's entertainment but desperately needed actors.

"I don't see why not…"

"If everyone else does it, I'll join."

"You don't expect the guest to _participer _right? _Oui_?"

"As if I'd do something like act in a child's play…"

Peter dipped his head in disappointment. They haven't even seen the script yet and they were already rejecting his invitation. Talk about impolite! He let his hand's drop to his sides and he ran back into the house shouting the worst insults and names that he could think of. The blond boy raced to his bedroom, grabbed pen and paper still bad mouthing the men at the top of his lungs, "I hope you all shrivel up and die like a prune in the sun!"

Behind him, he could hear the indignant gasp of Francis, the growl of Eric and the exasperated sighs of both his older brothers. Peter threw the door which led to the lawn at the back open and jumped down the stairs twice at a time. Once he nearly tripped but he quickly recovered and continued on his way, cutting across the lawn and sticking his tongue out at the fountain with the Venus statue childishly before he entered the woods that surrounded the mansion. He always felt most at peace in the woods and his imagination always merged into reality as he meandered amongst the trees aimlessly, letting his legs guide him. Almost like an enchanted forest filled with magical creatures, like fairies, unicorns and dragons. Satisfied with being hidden away from the eyes of the house, Peter sat down by the stream that ran through the estate, the serene trickling of water calming him greatly and as soon as he flipped the notebook open and the pen's lid removed, his hand began to fervently move horizontally across the page, words being rapidly scratched onto the paper as Peter's adventures began.

…_The princess was well aware of his remorseless wickedness. But that made it no easier to overcome the fluttering emotion of love that she felt in her heart for him…_

Tap tap tap.

He'd have to type it up later on the typewriter and correct all his mistakes along the way and perhaps, reword a few things.

…_The princess knew instinctively that he was not to be trusted. So heroic in manner, he appeared so valiant in word – but no one could ever guess the darkness lurking in his dark black heart except her…_

Tap tap. Pause. Tap tap tap tap tap.

…_He was the most dangerous man in the world and only she knew…_

Tear. Crumpling of paper. Another discarded note.

Alfred leaned back in his chair and propped his bare feet up on his messy desk. Papers covered it like wallpaper on a wall, stacks of books weighing the sheets down to prevent them from flying through the open window. A gust of gentle wind blew into the room, rustling the papers before everything settled down again. The wind didn't circulate very well in the house that he shared with Matthew, so to allow himself to cool down from the summer heat he had removed his shirt and shrugged off his suspenders for comfort, wearing nothing but his undershirt and pants. The American glanced at the paper that he had just freshly fed into the typewriter. He sat up momentarily and typed in 'Dear Arthur'. He shifted the typewriter down to a new row.

Problem encountered. What should he write?

He had every intention to apologise. Maybe it would be better to just say it face to face? No, he lacked the courage to say something so unlike himself. But if not, how would he go about doing it in a letter? Never in his school life had he truly been an ace at writing – that was Arthur's forte, not his. He could attempt to write as eloquently as the Brit, but his writing would always just come out more rigid than his already broken phrases. Arthur's enraged face floated into his mind, his words resounding in his ears even long after the incident had occurred. Alfred closed his eyes and stretched in his seat. He hated that genuinely angry look when it was directed at him. He much preferred the Arthur with a subtle smile on his lips and jade green eyes filled with happiness. He had only seen such an expression on the usually bitter man when he had spent all night writing a poem for his birthday. The poem still turned out horribly but according to the Brit, it was enough. At the thought of Arthur, Alfred couldn't help but recall him standing there soaked to the skin. Every route the water droplets marked on his body Alfred could almost remember, how the droplets highlighted every rise and fall of his body's contours and decorated his snow white skin like diamonds and crystals.

Alfred sat up properly and pulled the typewriter towards himself and began tapping swiftly away, and after an undisturbed moment's typing the dirty blond reread the note and collapsed in his chair with laughter. When he had calmed down again, he stole another glance at what he had typed and was reduced to a laughing mess a second time.

_Dear Arthur,_

_Sometimes I wonder what kind of fuck you are. What would you do if I pushed you down into the sheets and tore off all your clothes?_

_You'd probably yell at me and tell me how expensive they were._

"Oh God…" He laughed uncontrollably with a palm to his face. "How did I even come up with something like this?"

The American looked at the clock on his wall and swore lightly. It was already quarter past four! He had to get a move on. He took the note out of the typewriter then folded it crisply in half, pushed the machine out of the way as other papers on his desk crumpled in the process. His fountain pen rolled from one side of the desk to the other until it bumped against a book gently and stopped. Picking it up, he withdrew another sheet of paper from his drawer and began handwriting another note, this one much more presentable than the other had been with its vulgar words and unbearably straightforwardness.

_Dear Arthur,_

_You'd be forgiven for thinking me mad the way I acted this afternoon. The truth is, I feel rather lightheaded and foolish in your presence and I don't think I can blame the heat._

_Will you forgive me?_

_Alfred_

Much better. It was so polite that he found it odd but Alfred's education had told him otherwise. He smiled at the note nonetheless and rested the pen on it to keep it from flying away out the window. Later as he sat in his bathtub staring up at the window in their roof, Alfred realised that he had run into another problem. How was he going to give Arthur the letter? Just shove it in his hands and run? That was just plain rude and neither he nor Arthur would accept it.

He'll worry about it later.

An aeroplane roared past overhead in the sky and Alfred beamed at the machine, childishly imitating the growl of the plane engine. The world seemed such a wonderful place right now. His sky blue eyes smiled up at the heavens, admiring the fading hints of oranges and reds in the sky that melded into violet, lavender purple and then into indigo. Catching himself before he drifted off too far into his day dreams, Alfred rose out of the bathtub and dried himself with a towel, ruffling his dirty blond hair until it stopped dripping. Once his body was dry, he proceeded to clothe himself in his finest suit, a simple black suit with a starched white shirt and a black bowtie. He grabbed a comb and slicked his sandy blond hair back. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and could barely recognise the American who stared back at him with cornflower blue eyes. Alfred adjusted his suit in the mirror and made sure he looked perfect. Cleaning up the bathroom, he pulled on his socks and freshly polished shoes.

He checked the time – quarter to five. He had time to spare; tea doesn't usually start until six for the family.

Taking an unmarked envelope from his desk drawer, he inserted the note he had previously authored into it and opted not to seal it. Alfred backtracked and took another long look at the mirror, gave his reflection a wink and set off downstairs. Once in the living room, he found Matthew asleep at the table, his platinum blond hair washed in warmth in the summer evening. Carefully, Alfred grabbed a thin blanket that was lying on another chair and draped it over his brother's shoulders. It was a shame that Matthew couldn't come simply because he wasn't invited, but he had promised him that he would enjoy himself in his place. With a warm pat on his twin's head, Alfred departed home, head held high in confidence and pride. As he strolled down the road whistling a merry tune, Alfred paused at the bridge which arched over a missing lump of the landscape. He narrowed his eyes and spotted a tiny figure huddled amongst the vegetation like a small fairy in a bewitched tale.

"Peter? Is that you?" Alfred shouted. It seemed a solution had presented itself to his issue regarding letter delivery.

The blond boy looked up and quickly gathered his belongings before winding his way through the thick greenery, hopping over the stream which cut through the property and eventually he came to a halt when he fought his way up to the side of the bridge. "Hello Alfred, what are you all dressed up fancily for? Are you coming for tea after all then?" Something was oddly taciturn about how Peter spoke, far from his usual laidback tone.

"I am; now do you think you can do me a favour and help me pass this onto Arthur in advance?" Alfred offered the thirteen year old the creamy white envelope.

The child looked at letter almost in scrutiny, studying it with cautious eyes as if it was a dangerous contraption designed to cause him bodily harm. After another moment's worth of hesitation, Peter accepted the letter and took off back into the woods. Alfred watched him from the bridge, praying silently in his heart that it would reach its intended receiver safely.

Then it hit him. Almost like a double decker bus had just rammed into the side of his head at full power.

"Peter?" He whispered weakly to himself as his eyebrows knit together.

He had written two notes.

One that was meant to be sent and one that wasn't.

He had folded the one that wasn't meant to be sent and left it on the top of a book. The one intended for delivery was not folded and rested underneath the weight of his fountain pen. He had been so confident in himself that he wasn't really paying attention to which note he had inserted into the envelope. But by the time he remembered correctly, it was too late.

At the top of his lungs and with his heart pounding heavily in his chest as if he was about to suffer a detrimental heart attack, Alfred hollered urgently, "Peter!"

The blond boy was tired from the continuous run through the forest shortcut that only he knew about, but that didn't stop him. He refused to stop until he got back into the house – into the safety and privacy of his home. The growing fear in the pit of his stomach was working its way through his veins, the butterflies of nervousness melting into pools of nauseating poison as the scene at the fountain flashed through his mind again. Peter could hear his name being bellowed from where he came from but paid it no heed. He just ran until he was out of breath as he stood in the foyer of the mansion, dropping all his belongings onto the small round table that stood in the centre of the foyer. Without waiting for his breathing patterns to recover, Peter took the envelope and with shaking hands, opened it and hurriedly took out the note. He knew it was ill-mannered, improper and wrong to read a letter that was not addressed to him be it whether the letter had a written name on it or not. Yet still, his curiosity couldn't be held back any longer and he unfolded the note, his thirsty ocean blue eyes drinking in every single letter that formed a coherent word. Peter held his breath and for a moment, he thought his heart had stopped beating all together.

His suspicions were confirmed. It all made sense.

His long-time best friend was a homosexual. And he was sexually harassing his fourth brother. The whole incident from earlier that afternoon at the fountain that he had witnessed was a crime committed by his trusted friend, a sin of molestation and sexual indecency.

And the criminal was Alfred F. Jones.

Leaving behind everything he had brought with him on his outing, Peter dashed across the room to the library, throwing the door wide open. As expected, Arthur was sitting by the window sill, leisurely flicking through another of those impossibly thick volumes that filled the room. He had already changed a third time today in preparation for tea. Of course, when he changed into a second outfit, Peter knew exactly why.

His older brother looked up with a shocked expression at the sudden disturbance. Peter ran up to him, jammed the note into his book and said breathlessly, "There will be no play tonight."

Arthur unfurled the slightly crumpled note and caught sight of the foulest words in the message and inquired instantly, "Was there no envelope?"

But Peter Kirkland was long gone.

The boy locked his bedroom door and shut himself in the room until the sun rested behind the horizon and dusk swept across the skies, revealing the wondrous glitter of the celestial spirits that dwelled above, constellations dotting the vast void. The doorbell had rung like the chipper bells of Big Ben nearly an hour ago and Peter had no doubt that it was Alfred at the door. He could hear the constant shuffle of footsteps downstairs which meant that tea was almost ready. His eyes darted to the clock in his room, noticing that it was nearly six. Switching on the light in his bedroom, Peter took out a white suit matched with a baby blue shirt from his wardrobe and changed. He found it extremely peculiar how one was meant to change into impressive formal clothing for tea every night; but Peter's mind didn't dwell too long on the subject as he descended the wooden staircase into the house's foyer and a silver spark near the library door caught his eye.

Bending down to the carpet, Peter picked the small metal piece up, lifting it to eye level and studied it carefully. It was a square silver cufflink, no doubt kept carefully as it had barely a single scratch on its sleek surface. Peter had thought it familiar looking and dug through his brain for a matching image.

It was Arthur's cufflink.

Peter looked up at the library door; the dark polished wooden door completely shut and emitting an eerie aura. It was almost as if it was hiding something unspeakable and its dark demeanour willed Peter to leave at once. Again, curiosity overcame the thirteen year old as he twisted the door knob and swung the door open timidly and set foot into the library. The floorboards creaked under his foot. The large room was poorly lit, with only a desk lamp to guide Peter as he took wary footsteps into the unknown. The library smelt like a room of rotting history and mouldy yellowing pages, the room filled with sinister shadows cast by the bookshelves. Peter adored the library like his fourth brother did, but despised it at night when all it served to do was scare him.

However, as he tread carefully towards the lamp, a darker secret floated to light.

Just beyond the writing desk, caught like prey in a spider web and sprawled vertically across the width of the bookshelf on the steps of the library ladder in a position that was far too suggesting for any explanation to revoke, was Alfred and Arthur. His older brother was pinned up against the bookcase, his crimson red face buried in the American's neck as he perched on the library ladder perilously, his clothes in utter disarray and his slacks yanked down to mid-thigh length with the belt undone and hanging loose. Alfred on the other hand, was still dressed impeccably like Peter had seen him before – or at least that's what the boy could discern from the back of the American. Nothing was out of place about Alfred, all except his dishevelled hair and his dominating position over Arthur, both arms holding onto the sides of the bookcase for support with his right hand trapping the other blond man's hand against the wood as well. The pair dared not to move, imprisoned within invisible ice.

Tears sprung into Peter's eyes. He didn't know why he was sobbing, but he was as he meekly called out to his brother, his body trembling like a weak duckling that had only just hatched. He had seen something he wasn't meant to see, something he didn't want to see.

Something he was afraid to see.


End file.
